


When Lúthien Met Beren

by Oshun



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-30
Updated: 2011-06-30
Packaged: 2017-10-20 21:38:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/217350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshun/pseuds/Oshun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In response to the challenge to write a story or create a piece of artwork centered on meetings or reunions. I always wondered what Lúthien saw in that grubby unwashed Beren. Shallow person that I am, I figured he had to have been hot and had a sense of humor at very least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Lúthien Met Beren

He needed a bath in the worst way, but I could tell by the nature of his unwashed scent that he was young and healthy. And, he needed a shave even more than a bath! Although he did not have a lot of it, he had coarser hair on his face than any of the eldest of the Quendi that I had ever met. But he was gorgeous. Lovely eyes, even with the laugh lines around them. Simply from stories I had heard of them, I could tell at a glance that he was one of the Second-born and young. He felt guileless and new to me.

The thought of how young he was to carry signs of visible aging both attracted and repelled me. Eru had made an odd choice when he created these people. His laugh lines certainly gave him away as one of the Second-born, along with the gentle grooves already forming on each side of his mouth. His character and experience had been written right onto his face; one did not have to study and look inside of him to see what manner of man he was. His body was hot to the touch also; he felt almost feverish under my finger tips. His cheeks, slightly ruddy with windburn, showed pores larger than those of the skin of my people. But what lustrous eyes, framed by dark, thick eyelashes, a grey so pale they are an almost transparent blue in certain lights and in contrast to his suntanned face. His red soft lips had already proven themselves to be wickedly skilled. His broad, heavily muscled shoulders, long legs, and slim waist, had been the physique that had always draw my attention. His heavy hair, badly in need of a good brushing, hung wavy and black as a raven’s wing onto his shoulders, having almost entirely worked its way out of a single braid.

“You are so beautiful, incredibly beautiful. May I take this off?” he asked, his voice grown husky with arousal. With grace and confidence, he slid my gown down off one shoulder exposing one breast and leaned forward to lick the tip of a nipple before sucking it entirely into his mouth. He thought me beautiful, apparently with no idea of how ordinary I was compared to him. True, I had always been considered exceptionally attractive, but he was unique, an unpolished jewel, the quality of which shines out through the dross.

“Yes. Yes. Yes. Please,” I begged. “I have never seen anything like you. I want you.”

“Are you a virgin, pretty maid? Am I your first?” All starry-eyed and full of me and full of childish wonder he looked down upon me.

“No, sweetheart. I am so sorry. I know how men love to hear that they are. But you are not my first.” I squeezed his lovely long cock. “You are my biggest though, so far.”

He threw his head back laughing. “Men like to hear that too,” he said. His eyes crinkling, he kissed me again, ending by biting my lower lip and tugging. “But don’t say ‘so far.’ I am your last, Tinúviel! Get used to that idea.”


End file.
